


Forabilis

by Daiya_Darko



Category: Elementary (TV)
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Nightmares, Pre-Relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-05
Updated: 2013-05-05
Packaged: 2017-12-10 11:16:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,330
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/785448
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Daiya_Darko/pseuds/Daiya_Darko
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>I watched while you slept<br/>Watched worry and fear and hate<br/>Dance across your face</p>
            </blockquote>





	Forabilis

There are familiar sounds you come to live with when living in the brownstones. Pipes, occasionally. Outer city rambling, definitely. Crashes and thuds? Rarely, although not that uncommon. At this point, Joan has trained herself to ignored strange noises and exclamations of pain at odd hours of the night; it usually means Sherlock’s up and burning the midnight oil.

This time, there’s something about the way the _thud_ is followed by a _crash_ and no voice; Joan opens an eye, expecting to hear Sherlock curse the offending object’s existence. There’s no sound, however, and that worries her.

She sits up from bed and reaches for a bat. It might be a burglar, or it might be Sherlock testing her again. Either way, she’s beating someone’s ass.

Joan shoulders the wooden bat as she treads cautiously, then uses the base to shove Sherlock’s door open. She lets it hang loosely from her hand when she realizes there’s no threat, except Sherlock to himself.

One of his bedside clocks has been knocked to the floor, and he’s hanging half-way off the bed, arm dangling. There’s a cut on it from hitting the edge, and Joan has half a mind to let him just wake up with that. The doctor in her won’t let her.

She nudges him with the bat gently, whispering, “Sherlock?”

Immediately, he jumps forward, snatching the bat from Joan and looking around nervously. Now that he’s sitting up, in the dim light of illuminated clock faces, Joan can see he’s absolutely drenched in sweat. Worriedly, Joan yanks the bat from his hands and sits on the edge of his bed, placing a calming hand over his.

“Sherlock? Sherlock, it’s me, Joan. You’re okay,” she soothes, rubbing his hands between his. Sherlock stares at her, mouth agape as he tries to catch his breath and come to terms with his surroundings. When Joan decides his pulse is low enough, she lets go, and scoots back to give Sherlock more room.

“Do you want to talk about it?” Joan asks softly.

Sherlock gives a quick shake of his head. “I’d prefer to get a towel and go back to sleep. Thank you for your assistance, Watson.”

“Are you sure? It’s perfectly normal to – "

“I’m fine!” Sherlock snaps, eye twitching. “I am…fine, Joan,” he says again, quieter. His eyes dart to wear his hands are shaking, and he forces them still.

Joan looks hesitant to leave, but she gives him the benefit of the doubt and leaves him to his devices.

The next night, it’s the same thing.

And the night after that.

And the rest of the week, actually.

Sherlock acts as if nothing is wrong, flat out denies their nighttime interactions when the sun is up, but Joan has begun noticing Sherlock growing anxious as night falls. He tries to drink as much coffee possible to stay awake, claims to be working even though they don’t have an active case. The stress is beginning to show; Sherlock’s eyes are dark and puffy, his skin has a sickly pallor to it, and his hands don’t stop shaking. Joan almost wants to test him for drugs, but she thinks better of it; she trusts him, and if he were doing drugs, the guilt would cause him to break down and talk faster than this.

When Joan comes in on the sixth night, she just stands in the door way and shouts, “Sherlock!”

He sits up with a cry and looks around in confusion; there are tears in his eyes, and his whole body shakes as if he were crying in his sleep. Joan feels regret for being so stern, but she knows she has to at this point – for her sake and his.

“Listen, I don’t know what you’re dreaming about, but you don’t want to tell me and that’s okay. I can live with you keeping secrets from me, but you _have_ to tell someone. And it doesn’t have to be me, or Alfredo, or Gregson, but whoever you do tell needs to be someone you trust to keep a secret, alright?” Joan sets a glass of water and a fresh towel where another one of the bedside clocks used to sit and walks out.

Sherlock watches her go and sighs.

 

* * *

 

Marcus stretches as he gets up from his chair to answer the door. He’s already planning out the possible people it could be to show up unannounced at this hour, and he’s praying that it’s absolutely not him.

But it is.

“Ah, good evening Marcus!” Sherlock bounces on his feet as if it isn’t ten p.m. on a Saturday night and Marcus isn’t in his pajamas.

“Can I help you, Holmes?” Marcus asks tiredly. He had planned to fall asleep with Netflix on for the third night in a row, not babysit a man he’s sure is older than him.

“Well, seeing how you have no company and don’t plan to, I decided I would come over for a little male bonding!” Sherlock shoves his way in past Marcus, who tries not to throw him out the door by his collar.

“First of all, do I even want to know how you knew I had no plans?”

Sherlock dumps his bag open on Marcus’ small living room floor, revealing a small wooden case and small velvet bag, bags of popcorn, chips, and candy (skittles, M&Ms, and twizzlers), and some movies. He looks up at Marcus, grinning from ear to ear as if proud of himself for making a small mess.

“Are you planning a slumber party for some ten year olds?” Marcus hasn’t moved from the door, still convinced this is all some kind of joke, but as he watches Sherlock unfold the mancala set, he realizes that this is _really happening_ and also: Sherlock’s having a hard time dropping the marbles into their designated holes. His fingers tremble, his hand moving too fast to really get an accurate shot. Marcus sighs and gives in.

“So why me? Why not Gregson or even better, your own roommate?”

“Because, Marcus, Ms. Watson has a date tonight and I decided it best not to bother the captain.”

“So you bother me?”

Sherlock glances up, and a flash of worry crosses his eyes. “Am I bothering you?”

Marcus feels his breath catch in his throat. Something’s wrong, and he’s not sure, but it’s bad enough that Sherlock is trusting him. Marcus shakes his head and relaxes his shoulders, asking, “What kind of smoothie do you want? I’ve got mangos, raspberries, cherries, bananas, blueberries, strawberries, and peaches.”

Sherlock lights up like a kid at a fair. “I’ll leave it to you to decide. I don’t want to be picking out seeds from my teeth, and I like sweet, but not overly so.”

“Alright, I think I have just the thing,” Marcus smirks, and he gets busy in the kitchen fixing Sherlock a peach and mango smoothie with Greek yogurt to cut the sweetness. He makes a raspberry and cherry one for himself, and brings the two glasses to the floor where everything has been organized neatly: the mancala board is set, the snacks are organized by size, and the movie options are in alphabetical order.

“I picked out three movies: one I know you like, one I thought you would enjoy but haven’t seen yet, and one completely foreign to the both of us so that we’d be on even ground,” Sherlock explained proudly before sipping his drink. “Marcus, I must say, that aside from your work as a detective, you would also be more than proficient at making drinks for a living.”

Marcus smiled behind his glass. “I had to make a living before this, and I guess I never really lost the skill.”

“And what other skills do you have?”

“Are you asking to cross-reference with what you know or are you asking out of genuine curiosity?”

“Paint me curious, Marcus. What’s your favorite color?”

They chatted amiably over their game and snacks, avoiding the obvious questions like, _Why is Sherlock really here and why does he look so bedraggled? Why can’t his hands keep still, and why does he talk as if he’s walking on eggshells?_ Aside from that, Marcus could feel himself warming up to Sherlock, and not just because Sherlock continually lavished praise upon him.

Well, that did play a part, but mostly it was just seeing him outside of work. When he isn’t working, Sherlock isn’t as much of a showoff with a careless temper. It’s easier to see how the gears work in his head by listening to him ramble on while explaining the importance of evil.

“You won,” Sherlock states simply, startling Marcus out of his thoughts.

“Huh?”

Sherlock points at Marcus’ goal. “Congratulations, detective. Shall we watch a movie now?”

Marcus shrugs, and Sherlock picks up one of the DVDs. “Would you prefer to watch _Takers_ first or,” he switches it with another, “ _Prime?”_

“What’s _Prime?_ ”

“Marcus,” Sherlock gives him a level-stare, “I thought you’d never ask.”

They sit on the floor, bundled up in a blanket on the couch cushions as they watch the science fiction drama. Marcus tries to keep up, and tries harder to stay up, but he finds himself nodding off occasionally, only to wake up and not be sure of what exactly is going on anymore. He sticks it through, however, and manages to finish the movie, although he’s still kind of lost as to what the ending implied. He turns to ask Sherlock, only to find him leaning forward, unconscious. Marcus chuckles quietly, and guides Sherlock into a lying position on the floor, slipping a throw pill under his head. Marcus cleans up a little before making himself a space across from Sherlock and settling down to sleep.

Sometime during the night, Marcus is awoken by a fist to the face, and his first instinct is to reach for the gun under his pillow. Upon realizing he’s not in his usual sleeping arrangement, Marcus wakes up completely and sighs with relief at the sight of Sherlock. His relief is short-lived, however, when he realizes that Sherlock is tossing and shaking, covered in a sheen of sweat. Watching him, Marcus realizes what’s wrong with Sherlock, and feels his heart drop. He starts to reach out to wake Sherlock up, then thinks better of it and moves back to give him space. Marcus watches, making sure that when Sherlock lashes out or turns, he doesn’t hit anything. He grabs a towel from the kitchen and sits on the floor, waiting for Sherlock’s nightmare to finish.

When Sherlock’s eyes fly open, he fumbles at first at the unfamiliar surroundings, and tries to sit up in a hurry. Marcus grabs him, holding his arms down so that he can’t flail, and shushes Sherlock’s half-coherent muttering.

“Shh, calm down, Sherlock. It’s just Marcus. You’re in my apartment, remember?” Marcus explains quietly, keeping his hold on Sherlock. “We were watching a movie and you fell asleep, okay? Do you know where you are?”

Sherlock stops struggling, but his body doesn’t cease trembling. “I-I’m in New York City,” Sherlock manages past a dry, thick tongue.

“What’s your date of birth?”

“Sixth of January, 1972.”

“Do you know who I am?”

“Detective Marcus Bell.”

“Do you want to tell me what you were dreaming about?”

Without hesitation, Sherlock spills forth every dream he’s had since Moriarty popped up again. He dreamed he saw Irene dying and he wasn’t able to save her. Every dream was some variation of that theme, or him actually killing her himself. He dreamed he tortured Moran, who then became Irene but he could not bring himself to stop. Marcus listens silently, shifting his position so that he’s no longer restraining Sherlock, but simply holding him, arms wrapped around his shoulders.

“And then I dreamed he had you and Joan,” Sherlock continues, and Marcus almost tilts his head in surprise at hearing Sherlock call Joan by her first name.

“He was going to kill you both the way he did Irene and all I had to do was kill myself first, but I couldn’t pull the trigger,” Sherlock finishes, choking down a sob.

Marcus presses a kiss to the top of Sherlock’s head comfortingly and rocks him a little. “Hey, listen, you’ve been under a lot of stress recently. I know you want to catch this guy, and you will, but don’t let your thoughts consume you. You need rest. I know Joan’s probably worried sick about you right now and you’re not letting her in.”

“She told me to tell someone I trust not to tell anyone else about this. I know the captain wouldn’t say a word, but he’s also my boss. Joan has her confidants. You, on the other hand, can keep a low profile without looking suspicious. You hide many secrets away without having to close yourself off from people. I trusted you, because I knew it would not be a burden on you to confide.”

“If you need to talk in the future, just come by. But maybe call first so I can be ready?” Marcus chuckles softly, and relaxes when he hears Sherlock do the same.

“I apologize if I’ve been of any inconvenience. I know you usually spend your nights alone – "

“It’s not a big deal, Sherlock. If I didn’t want you here, I would have kicked you out way before now.”

Sherlock, seeming content with this answer, asks, “Do you plan on letting go?”

Marcus starts to loosen his grip on Sherlock, leaning away. “Do you want me to?”

Sherlock’s hands clutch tight to Marcus’ wrists as he leans back for more contact. “Please, for tonight?”

Marcus shifts to settle them back down on the floor, and grabs his own dry pillow for them to use. “Hey, whatever helps you sleep, right?”

Sherlock just lets out a breathy laugh, and Marcus finds himself smiling into Sherlock’s shoulder as he holds him closer.


End file.
